


I Know What You Like

by lotherington



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BDSM, Dom/sub, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-03
Updated: 2012-01-13
Packaged: 2017-10-28 19:53:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/311585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lotherington/pseuds/lotherington
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>‘I knew what he liked,’ she said.<br/>‘I know what she likes,’ she said.<br/>‘Well,’ she said, ‘I know what he likes.’<br/>And then she disappeared.</i></p><p>In the wake of The Woman, Sherlock has questions. John has answers.<br/>Spoilers for S2 Ep1 and Ep2.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Я знаю, что тебе нравится](https://archiveofourown.org/works/334920) by [Fate](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fate/pseuds/Fate)



> This is my first attempt at playing about with S2 canon and was meant to be a drabble. However, it ran away from me, as these things often do.

‘I knew what he liked,’ she said.

‘I know what she likes,’ she said.

‘Well,’ she said, ‘I know what he likes.’

And then she disappeared.

***

Sherlock has questions. He sits at the breakfast table and stares into the tea that Mrs Hudson makes him, pushes his toast and honey around his plate. He frowns and sighs and gets up from the table in a flurry of dressing gown and newspaper and discontent.

‘It’s no use,’ he snaps, and stomps up the stairs.

***

Sherlock doesn’t know it (not quite, not yet) but John has answers.

He holds answers in the snap of his wrist, the unyielding line of his back, in the steely note his voice takes on occasionally. Answers in his strong, able hands, in the joints and rough tips of his fingers. He holds answers tight between his lips, behind his teeth, in that place at the back of his throat where his breath catches.

And John won’t say them aloud. Not until Sherlock asks.

***

‘Ooh, seeing a lady friend tonight, Doctor Watson?’ Mrs Hudson says, smiling indulgently at John, squeezing both of his biceps from behind as checks his appearance in the mirror above the fireplace.

‘Yeah,’ he replies, sounding distracted, undoing and beginning to re-knot his tie.

She chuckles and goes back into the kitchen, taking an empty mug with her.

‘Taking her for _dinner_ , are you?’ Sherlock murmurs from his chair, swishing his violin bow back and forth.

John stops and looks down at Sherlock. Sherlock stills too. Stares back.

‘I might,’ John says, just as quiet as Sherlock. ‘I might, yeah.’

Sherlock throws his bow down and springs up, grabs the two ends of John’s tie. He adjusts the length of each end of the tie, folds one over the other.

‘Ever taken a man for dinner?’ Sherlock meets John’s eyes, his stare challenging, daring.

‘No,’ John says, calm gaze fixed on Sherlock’s face.

‘Ever going to?’

John bends forward, moves that little bit closer. He brings his fingers up to encircle Sherlock’s wrist and tightens his grip. ‘He’d have to be something very special indeed,’ he breathes across Sherlock’s lips, and Sherlock’s next exhalation is ragged and _wanting_.

‘Finish what you started,’ John says, standing straight again, nodding down at where Sherlock’s fingers are still curled around the silk of his tie.

Sherlock ties the knot swiftly and pauses for a breath before lifting his eyes to meet John’s. There’s no challenge there now, no daring John to giggle and shake his head and roll his eyes and walk away and leave.

‘I’ll be back in a few hours,’ John says. ‘I want you showered, on your bed and ready to begin as soon as I walk through that door, do you understand?’

Sherlock nods.

‘Do you understand?’

He nods again, more frantically.

‘ _Do you understand_ , Sherlock?’

‘Yes, John,’ Sherlock says, closing his eyes, swallowing, then taking a deep breath in.

‘Good.’ He presses the pad of his thumb to Sherlock’s bottom lip before stepping back, turning away, grabbing his coat. ‘See you, Mrs Hudson!’ he calls, and he doesn’t look back at Sherlock, who is standing and swaying slightly in the middle of the living room, eyes still closed.

***

Sherlock’s breathing is loud and harsh-sounding in the stillness of his bedroom, afterwards. John is stretched out on the bed, next to him, trousers still on as he runs the very tips of his fingers up and down Sherlock’s spine.

‘Better?’ John asks, leaning in and pressing a warm kiss to Sherlock’s shoulderblade. His hand moves up to scratch Sherlock’s scalp. ‘How’s that funny old head?’

Clearing his throat, Sherlock turns his head on the pillow, opening his eyes. ‘Yes,’ he says. ‘Better, John.’ He drops his gaze. ‘Thank you.’

Smiling, John kisses Sherlock’s forehead, rubs his thumb along the curve of Sherlock’s ear. ‘You’re welcome.’

Neither of them say a word, each content to listen to the other breathe. There are red marks all over Sherlock’s skin: teeth marks and handprints and raised lines from John’s nails. Sherlock hisses as John rubs his palm over some of the more livid ones, following with his tongue.

‘John,’ he says, very quietly. ‘Still full of surprises.’

John laughs and presses his lips to the back of Sherlock’s neck. ‘You haven’t seen me throw a whip yet.’

Sherlock groans, long and low, his mouth stretching into a grin.

‘I know what you like,’ John says against Sherlock’s lips, eyes half-lidded.

‘Yes, John Watson,’ Sherlock sighs, still smiling. ‘Yes, you do.’


	2. I Know What You Need

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _It’s not punishment, not exactly.  
>  And it’s not a reward.  
> Discipline hasn’t got much to do with it either.  
> Neither of them need it._
> 
> (Except, maybe, they do).

It’s not punishment, not exactly.

And it’s not a reward.

Discipline hasn’t got much to do with it either.

Neither of them need it.

***

‘Sorry we couldn’t do a double room for you boys,’ the bartender says with a wink. John lets his breath out through his teeth and closes his eyes because he’s not -- it’s not -- well, it’s just... it’s not about that, about sharing beds and weekend retreats, it’s _not about that_.

He tries to articulate this, decides it’s better if he keeps his mouth shut, and hands over the tenner for their drinks.

***

John tries to reason Sherlock through the fact that he’s sweating and shaking and near to tears, but it becomes apparent, quite quickly, that reason just won’t do.

Afraid and on edge, Sherlock brings his shaking fingers to rest at his temples, breathes out through his mouth.

‘Sher--’

‘There is nothing wrong with me!’ Sherlock roars, and all eyes in the low-ceilinged room swivel to the two of them, everyone almost certainly thinking, quite understandably, that there _is_ something wrong with Sherlock. He speeds through the deduction about the widow and the fisherman and the West Highland terrier called Whisky and snarls at John to leave him alone.

John does, but only after it’s been established that Sherlock doesn’t have _friends_.

***

After the doggers and the aborted flirtation with Henry’s therapist, there’s nothing else for John to do except go back to his and Sherlock’s room, where Sherlock is sitting on the edge of the bed, head in his hands, his grey shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He doesn’t look up when John closes the door, nor when John takes his coat and jumper off and rolls his own sleeves up.

He doesn’t even open his eyes when John places the tips of three fingers on the underside of Sherlock’s chin, tilting his face upwards towards the yellow light in the hotel room.

‘Knees, Sherlock,’ John says quietly.

Sherlock folds immediately and lands on the floor between the twin beds with a slam.

‘Tell me the safeword I gave you.’

Sherlock swallows. ‘S-Stradivarius, John, it’s Stradivarius.’

John nods, strokes Sherlock’s damp hair back off his face. ‘Good boy. That’s right. Let me help you, now.’ He bends to kiss Sherlock’s forehead then straightens up, stepping away as he barks an order. ‘Hands behind your head, elbows out. Arms straight, Sherlock, that’s it. Thighs at forty-five degrees. Further. Further. That’s it, hold that position.’

It’s designed to hurt, to send a dull ache seeping through Sherlock’s muscles. His legs start trembling after twenty-seven seconds. His arms shake after thirty-six.

Sherlock’s eyes flutter open and their eyes meet for the first time since John came in. Sherlock’s chest heaves and his throat works as he swallows again. ‘John,’ he breathes, and he might just be the most beautiful thing John’s ever seen.

But neither of them need it.

***

Sherlock whimpers as John presses a cool glass to the backs of his burning thighs. He is lashed to one of the headboards by his wrists with his scarf, lying on his front.

He hasn’t felt scared since John ordered him to his knees. Now, nearly an hour later, he is naked and very much in his body but owing to his reactions to pain rather than fear. It feels blissful.

‘Drink,’ John murmurs, putting the empty glass down and pushing a bottle of water to Sherlock’s lips, tilting it so that Sherlock can sip a few times. The position is awkward, Sherlock’s biceps framing his face, but they make a decent go of it.

‘More,’ Sherlock demands.

John grips the wooden ruler he found in the desk a little tighter, unsure.

‘More,’ Sherlock says again, stretching to look at John, his lips parted, sweat shining in the hollow of his throat and across the top of his back. ‘You want to, John, more, more.’

‘Quiet,’ John hisses before bringing the ruler down across the back of Sherlock’s thighs once. John doesn’t want to think about the fact that he wants to, that he really bloody wants to. He’s still hurt and a bit angry and it feels good, to know that he’s the only one Sherlock will trust enough to do this, even if Sherlock doesn’t have _friends_.

There’s silence. John licks his lips. Sherlock pants for breath.

‘Again,’ Sherlock whispers once it’s been two minutes, his spine bending into a graceful bow as he writhes on the mattress, his arse and his thighs striped with pink. ‘More.’ His fingers fumble against the bars of the headboard as he shifts onto his knees, head hanging down towards his chest, legs spread wide.

Neither of them need it.

John blinks.

‘Please,’ Sherlock breathes.

John brings the ruler down again and again and again and again until Sherlock is a groaning, shivering mess and John himself is shaking slightly. He throws the ruler to the floor and kneels on the bed, undoing the knots in Sherlock’s scarf to free Sherlock’s wrists.

‘Come here,’ John says, coughing, shifting onto the bed properly, pulling Sherlock into his lap, against his chest. ‘Come here, come here, I’ve got you.’ He rubs Sherlock’s wrists gently in repetitive little circles, presses his lips to Sherlock’s forehead.

Sherlock continues to shiver, his eyes closed. His fingers brush against John’s chest as he fights to get closer, shoving his face into John’s neck, breathing deeply.

‘Alright?’ John asks, tracing Sherlock’s lips with his thumb, brushing over Sherlock’s filtrum.

Sherlock nods, fisting his hand in John’s shirt.

‘Let me get something for your skin,’ John says, moving to get up.

‘Stay,’ Sherlock whispers.

***

Everything seems that bit better in the morning.


End file.
